The Coast
by Kyusil
Summary: "I accept my duty and obligation as marquess to serve the people of Pherae." Eliwood had long since taken the oath... but where was it taking him? Oneshot, takes place in the interim period between FE7 and FE6.


Eliwood had always taken for granted that his son had been to the coast. Perhaps he was only remembering his own childhood, when he took day trips to the beach routinely. He could have sworn Rebecca had said something about it at one point… but then, he also could have sworn he'd read the last stack of letters from his contacts in Etruria, or completed the first draft of the 14-page piece of legislation that had taken over his desk.

He remembered suddenly that there was a letter from Hector underneath this monstrosity—a response to Eliwood's frank, if perhaps improper, question of how exactly his friend could manage to run a territory twice the size and population of Pherae and still have time to train alongside his knights every day. He'd already felt overwhelmed by his workload, and it had hurt his pride a little to be reminded of the fact that it had been years since he'd held a rapier outside of ceremony. Hector had answered, in his characteristic scrawl, that he'd simply stopped paying attention to deadlines, that there had been whole reams of charters and letters and the like that he'd used for kindling without a second glance, or else given to Lilina to fold into elegant little paper flowers. _What can anyone do about it?_, he'd written.

But Eliwood couldn't lead like that. He'd taken an oath at his ascension ceremony, one that he'd engraved into the back of his mind alongside his now-obsolete wedding vows: _I accept my duty and obligation as marquess to serve the people of Pherae. _It wasn't the most specific of statements, but ever since the words had left his lips he'd understood them to mean that he commit himself to every domain tour, every conference with his fellow lords, every mind-numbing document that found its way into his study—without question.

He'd come to find out about Roy's illness in the same way as he learned most other news. Having fallen asleep at his desk for the second night that week, he awoke to a tray of breakfast, tea, and a small pile of sealed envelopes. Almost mechanically, Eliwood sat up and began to open one of the letters when he noticed a small note tucked underneath his lukewarm cup of tea. It was Lowen's handwriting, a hastily-written request for Eliwood to come down to their quarters as soon as was convenient for him.

Eliwood started on his tea and the first of the letters— a report on the recent expansion of the Bernese military—but the urgency of the note was beginning to bother him. Heaving a sigh, he set his work down and resigned it to later in the day, or at least once he'd taken care of whatever Lowen needed him for.

As he left his quarters and walked along the open-air corridor leading to the stairs, the warmth of the direct sunlight struck Eliwood as something strangely unfamiliar. He couldn't have been cooped up in his study for so long that _sunlight_ felt foreign to him! He must have still been dazed from waking up in a chair, or perhaps it had simply become warmer since the last time he'd roamed the castle. In any case, he had a long stride and a brisk pace, so he didn't get to enjoy it for long. After a flight of stairs and a short indoor passageway, he arrived at the door to Lowen and Rebecca's quarters and gave it a sharp knock. A moment passed before the door creaked open; upon looking down, Eliwood was greeted by a pair of timid-looking eyes under a canopy of pear-colored hair.

"Good morning, Wolt," Eliwood said, trying to sound kind despite the fact that his voice was scratchy and hoarse from disuse. "Do you mind if I come in?" Looking downright startled at being addressed directly, the boy pushed open the door and bowed low, mumbling something that ended in "sir". Before Eliwood finished thanking him, Wolt had hurried into the next room and returned a few seconds later with his mother. Rebecca looked every bit as tired as Eliwood felt; it was one of the first times he'd seen her with her hair fully down, and certainly the first time he'd seen it looking this disheveled.

"Lowen told me you fell asleep at your desk again," she said with a weary smile. "If we'd known you were up all night, milord, we would've told you…"

"What's wrong?" Eliwood asked delicately, though he was becoming rapidly aware that his heartbeat was accelerating—racing, even—as he looked around the living room for any sign of his son, strained his ears for the sound of his voice or laughter… it was the beginning to a painfully familiar scenario, and sure enough, Rebecca averted her eyes before she answered.

"Roy's sick again." Eliwood knew exactly what she was going to say, but his preparedness didn't make the news any easier to take; unable to find a suitable response, he merely nodded and waited for her to continue. "He said he wasn't feeling well as soon as he got up… but that's normal for him, we didn't think anything of it." She paused. "It just got worse. Something's wrong with his breathing, and he's had a terrible fever... I think it made him delusional last night. He thought he was drowning... but he's never been swimming, he's never even been to the beach."

Eliwood could only stare at her, lost for words. Rebecca was steadfast, as reliable a guardian and… well, a _mother_ as Eliwood could have chosen for his son. At every previous bout of illness, she hadn't hesitated to reassure both of them that everything would be better in the morning—and it always was. She'd spent sleepless nights caring for Roy all those times, but she never looked exhausted until now. And it wasn't just that—there was something unnerving about the look in her eyes… was it hopelessness? Or was Eliwood only seeing his own reflection?

After a few moments of stiff silence, Rebecca spoke up again: "Do you want to see him?" Eliwood murmured in assent and followed her into the next room. He could hear a sharp wheezing sound before they even entered, so it came as a shock to him to see Roy asleep upon the bed, his breathing visibly labored, his blankets in disarray and his clothing twisted as a result of an agonizing night of tossing and turning.

"I only got him to sleep about an hour ago," Rebecca said through a yawn, running a hand over her face.

"How on earth did you get him to sleep at all?" Eliwood whispered.

"He was exhausted after last night, it was only a matter of time," she replied. "Also, I put brandy in his milk." Eliwood smiled weakly, unable to help but think that he could use the exact same thing.

"Rebecca… why don't you get some rest," he said. "I'll look after Roy until Lowen gets back."

"Oh, no, Lord Eliwood… it's only another few hours, I can go a bit longer." She nearly swallowed the yawn that was threatening to give her away.

"Please. I'd only like to spend some time with him." Rebecca couldn't argue, nor did Eliwood think she was much inclined to. With a sigh, she bid them goodbye-for-now and called out softly for Wolt, proceeding to tell him (rather unnecessarily, Eliwood thought) to stay quiet until his father came home. And with that, she left, shutting the door behind her and leaving the marquess alone with his son for the first time in months.

Eliwood sat down on the foot of the bed and began smoothing out the blankets, careful not to nudge Roy and wake him up. It struck Eliwood how small and frail he was; he looked much younger than seven, except for the dark shadows under his eyes. Eliwood had always known, more or less, that Roy would never be as strong or resilient as the lords before him, but he also assumed that he _would_ still be strong and resilient. _It just seems like he's never gotten to be healthy… but he has been, I know he has been. _The memories were fuzzy, scant, but present all the same. _It's just never when I see him._

Something made him think suddenly back on Lilina's paper flowers. While he'd never met Hector's daughter, Eliwood felt as if he knew her quite well from his friend's letters. What had he written about Roy, then? That he was sickly, that he hadn't been able to accompany Eliwood on the trips to Santaruz or Araphen like he'd planned, that it would probably have to be another year until he'd have the stamina to pick up swordplay… was that all Hector knew? Was that all Eliwood himself knew…?

The thing he'd suspected deep down since he'd read the note under his tea, that he'd managed to ignore as he spoke with Rebecca, rose, unbidden, to the surface of his mind: Roy probably wasn't going to survive this illness. The last memory Eliwood would have of his son was what he was seeing at that moment: his weak, feeble frame struggling to draw breath even in a sedated slumber. He may not even hear his voice again… no, this was too much to bear. Shaking with barely-suppressed tears, Eliwood reached out and took Roy's hand, hoping that the touch wouldn't wake him and, simultaneously, that it _would_, that he might open his eyes or mumble something or even _smile_…

Nothing. Not even a stir. He slept on, as peacefully as he could with that ragged breathing. Eliwood supposed it was enough that he wasn't in pain. He remained at the foot of the bed for the next few hours, stroking his son's forehead in the hopes that he would feel it become a little cooler, mulling over the sea of thoughts in his head. _He thought he was drowning… but he's never even been to the beach._

When Eliwood returned to his study that afternoon, he gathered the useless documents from his desk with every intention of throwing them into the fireplace. But… no, it was rash. He didn't need to break his oath. It looked as though Roy was going to make it through the night, after all. There would still be time. With a sigh, he set the stack of parchment back and sat down to sort through it once more. There were the reports about Bern he still had to read, the law he needed to finish, the various requests and trade propositions he'd yet to decide on, Hector's letter…

There was still time. Roy would recover—Eliwood felt more certain now that all he could hear were the waves crashing against the rocky shore below the castle, and not those ghastly, rattling breaths… He'd recover, and he'd be well enough for a trip to the coast. Eliwood tried to smile, despite the piles of unsettling news and unfinished paperwork before him. At least, at the very least, he'd have something to pen proudly in his next letter to Ostia, something to imbue life into Hector's image of his son… and he'd make it his own vivid memory. He just hoped he wouldn't have to rely on a memory in the future.

* * *

I sat down to write this as a more serious response to the badass Eliwood prompt, but it turned out to be something else altogether. I accept the fact that, for the most part, I have no idea what I'm doing- if anything was off or executed poorly, don't hesitate to let me know so I can improve. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.


End file.
